


Life/Art Imitates Art/Life

by Zugzwang (thunderdone)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Backupsmore University, College AU, Gen, Guitar, Music, Photography, Science, gfss2016, mentioned DD&D so fuckin heck yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 19:25:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8933845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunderdone/pseuds/Zugzwang
Summary: Everyone has their little quirks. Fidds plays guitar. Ford knows photography. Now, Ford plays guitar and Fidds knows photography. It's the way one can maintain their sense of self in college. For the GF Secret Santa 2016.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, there's this line in the episode before Weirdmageddon. Dipper's talking about how he wants to do this and that in college with a minor in photography. Ford says right after something along the lines like it's talking to a younger version of himself. Sort of got the idea from that little line. Probably I'm taking it like too damn far like whoa but I like it. I like my ideas and am happy with it. Hope you enjoy!!

Fiddleford’s playing didn’t bother Ford, at least when he did it quietly and respected him when he asked for some bits of silence when he was studying. It could be nice. Some nights, he would trade in the gusto of his banjo for the smoother, more warm tones of an acoustic. After a few months of rooming together, he had lost count of the number of times he had fallen asleep to the gentle scratches of a pen on manuscript and the occasional coaxing of notes out of the instrument.

Ford was, in no way, a musical man. What he was, however, was a man of discovery and understanding, so he felt obligated to question Fidds on the nature of the instrument, and why on earth he liked such a thing. Within his own thought process, he always considered art based on the intricacies of angles between figures, how everything lined up proportionally based on the evidence provided by scientists on how the human body worked, to be more in the realm of science. Not these nonphysical, asymmetrical, temporary vibrations through air. Those belonged more in the realm of pseudoscience. So, as was his nature, he asked a question.

It was midday, probably a Sunday? The days seemed to melt together now that his life was no longer exclusively ruled by the rigidity of the public school system. Finally, the work he had been scaling was completed, and he had taken the time to shower, get a hot bowl of soup, overall allow himself to relax. Fidds was more of a night owl, compared to his own daylight tendencies, so he had taken the time from when he had woken up to the present to clean up and begin to awaken his mind with some soothing music.

“Fiddleford?”

“Stanford?”

“Do you need different sorts of strings to play banjo and acoustic guitar?”

The gentle strums paused as he considered the question, head cocked to one side. His glasses had managed to make their way about halfway down his nose before he slid forward on the mattress to provide an answer for Ford. Flicking the hair out of his eyes, he spoke again.  
“Well, for banjo, mandolin, and acoustic, y’gotta take into consideration the different styles. Y’don’t need to use a different string for the different types, they all work, but some are pre-cut to make tuning easier, and some are made of different materials so you get a different sound. They’ll all make the same notes and sound relatively similar, but all in all, you don’t need to use different ones. You follow?”

“I follow you. Different cuts, different sounds.”

“Right. So, there are these sets assembled to suit each instruments' tuning requirements, all ready to go. That said, all things not being equal, using banjo strings on a mandolin will make you sound dumber, and using guitar strings on a mandolin will make you sound more popular. Conversely, using mandolin strings on a banjo make you sound hifalutin', and using mandolin strings on a guitar make you fade into the background. Nobody really know why; it just is.”

“So,” Ford began, head resting over the palm of one of his hands as he, too, sat up on the edge of his bed, “is it more like… using an off-brand sort of Tylenol? Usually it has the same end effects, it gets the point across, but there are some things that Tylenol does do that it doesn’t, and vice versa?”

Along with Fiddleford’s sure nod, his hair flopped down once again, spilling down behind his glasses into his eyes. “Precisely.”

Here, he paused for a moment, unsure of where the conversation would- or could -go from there. There were two prominent suggestions in his own mind at that moment: he could recommend some guitarists for Ford to listen to if he was gaining an interest in that sort of thing, or he could just recommend, out rightly, teaching him to play. Sure, it could be weird. Would be, even, what with his anomalous hands and all that. But, that’s what life was about, right? Trying out new weird things just to see how they would go? That seemed an awful lot like something up Ford’s alley so… why not?

"Stanford?”

"Fiddleford?"

"Fancy learnin' some guitar?"

The same sort of thought process briefly flashed through ford's mind at the suggestion. How would his hands work around the strings? He knew he'd be compelled to use all of his fingers, like a pianist would, but it probably wouldn't work the way he'd like it to. It may provide some practice for control over the extra limb. So, on these brief whims and a pressure from within to answer quickly, he gave a curt nod. "Why not."

* * *

 

The following weeks were sprinkled with lessons, squished between classes where the sun lit their work in the middle of a park between buildings, or in the evenings just before they needed to get a start on the grindstone once again, in the middle of the night where they both sat at their desks, a street lamp outside giving the sheet music an eerie orange tone. When they both could squeeze it in, between the group projects, sheets upon sheets of notes, work, study groups, homework, and the bare minimum needs they both had, they did. Which made if only about twice a week, maybe a half an hour per session if they were lucky. But, they progressed. 

Fiddleford did his best to teach without acknowledging the elephant at hand. Ford did his best to learn around it. It would work some days, and not others, like any new talent. Soon enough, they figured out that they wouldn't need to struggle with capos as much, if Ford were to build up some more muscle in his final finger, and work on keeping his hand just a bit more still. Early on, they began to work with songs requiring or suggesting a capo to make lives easier, just to test how far they could ride out this idea. The end result wasn't spectacular, but it worked either way. 

And Ford found it enjoyable. Not just enjoyable, downright relaxing. Being able to sit for a couple minutes, not have to worry about this or that, just focus on the physical feeling and sound of flesh on string, nail on string, how it echoed back within the hollowed out mass of wood was amazing. It didn’t matter if they were outside under the caring or ruthless sun, or inside where the heating system was their only master, everything felt amazing. And it came quick, too, the notes, the notations, the sounds that he had to pull from the being, to stroke at its vocal cords and make it purr.

Music became a science, precise and quantifiable, measurable. Whether it was by how long he practiced, how long one note was sustained, or the sheer pitch of it, everything felt like a science. He had to experiment, what sounded better where, how to pull out a cleaner or rougher pitch. Even the words, mixed Latin and Italian, felt scientific. Soon chemistry had its own fortissimo, or a 9/8 time within the ticking of a stopwatch. Music and science were one and the same, a leaf off the same branch.

* * *

 

"Fidds?"

"Ford?" 

"I got something."

Ford sat up in bed, fumbling up on the wall for the light switch, sore fingers on edge from the beating they took the night before. Vacation had just begun and, since neither of them had families they were exactly eager to go see, the two made an agreement to keep one another company over break. Meaning, they had time. Aside from projects, which would be procrastinated as long as possible, there was no work, for school or for money, so they could actually relax. 

Blinking rapidly under the sudden fluorescents, Fiddleford raised a hand to cup over his eyes my shielding them from what felt suddenly blinding. "If it's not coffee, or something real good, Stan, I swear to god I'm gonna put the remains of my last lab in your pillow one of these days. Which, reminder, involved hydrochloric acid, may I remind you."

"No, it's good. Don't go back to sleep, not yet. I got an idea. It's a trade." Ford knelt at the trunk underneath his bed, sorting through some of things, in the grand scheme of things, that could be considered junk, based on how frequently used they were, until he found whatever he was looking for— "Still intact, too, great."

"God, damn it- Ford, please." 

He slid back around to face Fiddleford, still on his knees as he fumbled with some film, awkwardly putting it into the little slot in the back of the camera, a Polaroid. "A trade. You've been teaching me guitar. My minor's in photography. Or, well, it will be. Let me teach you." There was so much excitement, and his voice practically glowed as it left his chest. Even three hours before the real time he usually awoke, he had the same coherency, possibly doubled, even, by the presence of his excitement. 

Giving into the fact that he probably wasn't going back to bed any time soon, Fiddleford propped himself up on his elbow, blinking away any sleep he could manage to. "That ain't fair. You're learnin' professionally. I just play for fun. I don't wanna learn either, I don't need to."

"Fidds, c'mon, if you go out and do field work later in life, you can use it, it's really simple and it helps so much when studying creatures-"

"Then you keep studying and let me sleep."

Not entirely dissuaded, Ford left the camera out atop his dresser, prepared to re-engage the battle in the morning, hopefully to persuade a change of heart and mind from within Fiddleford. If renewing his efforts again in the morning didn’t work, then, he would just have to indirectly bother him about it. Gently. Only by beginning to carry the camera around everywhere he went and begin to take outings without Fidds to take pictures.

But, thankfully, he didn’t need to.

When the sun had risen and Ford was finishing his preparations to head out to the breakfast hall, Fiddleford began to awaken, bleary eyed and bushy haired. As he got up, grumbling to himself about the absurdity of morning and how ridiculous it was that, even on vacation, he had to get up fuck all early. Only nine, really, but nine tends to feel like midnight when you’re awakened close to there once. Or fall asleep there. Whatever. He wasn’t used to waking up that early on a day off and didn’t want to was the main point.

As usual, Ford didn’t bother Fiddleford barely even greeting him and wishing him a restful sleep. Fidds wasn’t a morning person, so why bother him with half assed conversation. Once they were both rejuvenated by that elixir of life, coffee, they would exchange pleasantries.

Together, they walked to the dining hall, bundled up as much as they were willing to for such a long walk. Shoving their hands into their pockets and a scarf to burrow down into was enough for the touch below freezing weather they were experiencing. And of course, once the ambrosia was flowing through their veins, everything felt just a bit more manageable. Sure, all school heating sucked, and sure the dining hall was just a hair over the line of exception, but they felt just a bit warmer.

“So,” Ford began, once they were sitting across from one another at a table, plates laden with a sufficient amount of food, “Have you given those photography lessons a thought.”

“Damn it, Fordsy, give a man some time. I’ll admit, I wasn’t, ah… I wasn’t givin’ it the consideration it deserved. But, the way I addressed it was totally justified. You woke me up, on vacation, before the sun was even up. So, I reckon my actions were condonable.” With that, he took a quick forkful of the eggs on his plate.

The answer satisfied Ford as well for the time being, it seemed, as he dropped the subject and moved onto the DD&D tournament they had planned for New Year’s Eve.

* * *

 

“Yeah. I’ll take it up then.”

“Huh?”

“Photography. But here’s the deal. You gotta go, every week, or every couple weeks if it’s real hard, and show me a piece you can play. We can both do it and decide, like, topics for me and a composer or something for you. I’ll do the same after you give me a few lessons in, like, how you actually make things look good. We gotta deal?” Fiddleford held his hand out to Stanford, sleeve rolled up to his elbow and a victorious smile adorned.

Really, he didn’t have to set that as an ultimatum in Ford’s eyes, he would’ve learned those pieces with or without the tantalization of seeing Fiddleford’s work progress every so often, give him little bits of advice on how to improve, and get some on his own. All around, a win-win situation for the two of them. Ford took the hand in his own for a firm shake.

* * *

 

To put it frankly, Fiddleford loved every second of the photography lessons. His love was found, as he discovered and noted in his own journal, in three part harmony.

The time with Ford.

That one was simple enough. He got to watch Ford just a bit more closely. The way his hands moved, but not how they worked. How carefully he lined up a shot and paused, breathed in, breathed out and let his finger fall with the aperture. Then there were the times were, for an example, he was in the shot, and he got to watch the way Ford studied him, as if he was the specimen for once. Which… okay that part wasn’t great. Being studied wasn’t top of his to do list. But to study the way that Ford studied things to be studied was fascinating.

The way things could be seen.

His last point tended to ramble on and bring him around into this. Seeing and studying became one and the same. From one angle, a tree was a tree and there was a bird in it. Zoom in and the tree was not a home, it was a predator. Fade out the background, add a fisheye effect to the back layer, everything was a threat. Color theory, and the impact color could have on an audience was remarkable. Three colors across usually worked well in tandem. Orange yellow and green, or purple, violet, blue. A sea could be a see in blue. Or a deathtrap in green. Or an alien world in purple overshadowed by a mint sky, speckled only with the ideas of stars and grandeur.

How photography was a science.

Again, the first lead to the third or the second. Studying was a science and so photography was a science, and a precise one at that. Sure, you could crop something to make it a bit better, but being able to zoom, get the right amount of light, time it so the subject didn’t change, everything was so fast and panicked and the very essence of science. A thousand atoms could be pushed together, and he wouldn’t worry as much. Science would catch up eventually, science would catch how many protons, neutrons, electrons, anomalies were associated with those atoms that, really, didn’t matter based on how unstable they were. And yet, science perused them and yet, photographers snapped away. Anything could be gone in an instant and back again in science, situations were able to be replicated. But in photography, a genuine moment could be lost forever, a single second could be a waste and a situation abandoned.

* * *

 

But, that was life. Everything could vanish in an instant. Nothing is capturable. But, some moments can be maintained, at least for a little while.

**Author's Note:**

> Life imitates art far more than art imitates Life. -Oscar Wilde  
> Art imitates life and, sometimes, life imitates art. It's a weird combination of elements. -Bruce Willis  
> Life doesn't imitate art, it imitates bad television. -Woody Allen


End file.
